


Soaked In Soul

by warmheartseek



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Not A Fix-It, Other, first (and only) kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16760149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmheartseek/pseuds/warmheartseek
Summary: How Edward spent his days holding onto what's left.





	Soaked In Soul

Edward’s eyes volleyed off the mansions walls, glancing over his shoulder every so often in case a snooping housemaid might have followed him upstairs. The coast was clear. A very metaphorical coast, as it were. There was never any true clarity after Oswald's death, not when Edward spent every waking moment being plagued by a thick, emotional fog.

Ed backed up against the door, felt for the handle and slipped into the master suite. Silent as a mouse, careful not to wake the dead. He turned and nearly cried out at the sight of his dripping friend lounging on the bed. Obviously not careful enough.

“I told you not to do that. And what did I say about dripping on the furniture?” Ed snapped.

Oswald rolled his eyes, the leather of his shoes making an unsettling squish when he stood.

“And what did _I_ say about you speaking to me as if you don’t control all of my actions.” He crossed his arms, the oil-slicked fabric of his soaked coat glinting in the dim light of the room.

Edward shot a look at the hallucination, “Please, I couldn’t control you in life and I certainly cannot control you in death.”

“But couldn’t you,” Oswald cocked his head, “you had Penguin wrapped around your little finger, but _you_ threw that all away. And for what?”

A rousing anger thrummed in Ed’s chest, he felt deaf to anything but the blood rushing in his ears. How badly he wanted to grab this man by the collar, shake him, slam that sopping head against a wall over and over, kill him a second time. But Ed knew it would solve nothing, he was hopelessly lost without Oswald. Such a vital piece of him now lying at the bottom of Gotham river.

All he wanted was to forget Oswald, pretend his death meant Edward’s freedom and erase any trace of the man from his memory. All of the kindness, the way Oswald would smile fondly when Edward went on too long about one topic. Ed could practically hear uneven footsteps thump up and down the hall when he lay awake at night, always checking the dusky hallway to make certain it was only his imagination.

It was the sole time Edward wished to be proven wrong.

In the dead of night, when Edward had trouble sleeping, he would sneak into Oswald’s vacant bedroom. The room sat undisturbed, suits still hung neatly in a row, wax-shined shoes sat obedient at the edge of the bed in wait for crooked feet that would never come. As if there would ever be anyone else worthy of filling those shoes.

The scent of Oswald’s cologne still trailed through the mansion, brewed like a hazy storm and clouded every inch of Edward’s lungs. He could taste it at the back of his throat, throwing down an unfinished mouthful on his fork anytime it flooded his tongue.

Only when it started to fade did Edward realize the comfort it brought.

The room was uninhabited, but not lonely. Oswald permeated every inch of the interior, his soul soaked and stained the fibers of carpet. Edward spent more time in the master suite than his own at one point, though he began to lose track of the days before his nightly treks to Oswald’s room, they seemed small and unimportant in comparison.

Eventually Edward gave up the fruitless struggle against instinct, finding routine in buzzing about the manor during daylight while fending off his demons, the ones shaped like an old friend with a sharp tongue. Night brought sanctuary in violet satin. The sheets looked proper when used and on a good night, Edward could almost pretend it was Oswald’s doing.

The bad nights were reserved for sour tears and bitter pills that caught on their way down a parched throat.

“Do you think this is what he wanted for you?”

  
The voice was defeated, far from the viper Edward had been stuck with so far. Ed hung his head, resigned behind his palms to keep himself from getting sick and from seeing the imagined look on his friend’s face. The real Oswald would never be so disappointed in Ed. If he were here, Oswald would rush to Ed’s side and offer the world on a string if it’s what he desired.

“Why should I care what Oswald wanted for me? He wasn’t the only one who knows what’s best. I am much more without him, I am The _Riddler_.”

Edward wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince with the last statement.

“I’m afraid you know that isn’t true.”

Edward scoffed, “Oh, do I?”

“Yes. Because I know it. And I know everything you do, Edward,” Oswald dropped to a whisper near Ed’s ear, “including the things you’re trying _not_ to know.”

Edward felt a hot rage build behind his rib cage, it enveloped him, burned his ears and blinded the corners of his vision.

_How hard can it be to forget the man who wronged me?_

_The one person in the world with whom I placed my unbridled trust and he threw it away over a petty crush._

_It should have felt good to kill him, righteous and just. Should have relished in the sight of life draining over his pale hands._

His mind raced with the ‘should haves’ and the ‘would haves’. A rapid pulse thrummed against his temples, blinding pain and the ringing of a gunshot in his ears. Edward could almost smell the rotting seaweed and salt, touch the silk of Oswald’s tie and feel the fabric bunch between his fingers. Reality seemed a fickle friend in the days following Oswald’s death, but the scene unfurling before him was unnaturally realistic.

Edward was back at the docks. The sound of Oswald’s voice rang high above the noise of nearby construction and a bustling city.

_‘I did it for love. I did it because I love you, you should know that.’_

Edward felt a familiar rage well up in his chest, same finger ghosting over the trigger with a readiness to end his friend’s life all over again. Only this time, there was no willingness behind it. Edward felt sick, a twisting sensation in his stomach that seemed to mimic the curl and crash of the waves behind them. He felt that no amount of force could pull that trigger, Edward’s other hand still continuing to entangle itself in the fabric. Oswald’s face was stricken, a panic that only made Edward’s heart sink father towards his feet. He knew what came next, he would pull Oswald close, only to release the grip and let his best friend sink to the icy depths of Gotham river. A trail of ruby red would quickly cloud his view of the condemned man, rendering Edward blind to his own atrocities.

_‘Say something_.’

The vision of Oswald begged with a weak voice and tearful eyes.

Ed opened his mouth, ready to say the words that echoed in his head for innumerable hours out of every day.

_‘I loved her Oswald, and you killed her.’_

But they rested behind his lips, stubborn little things with no intention of having their presence be known by anyone besides Edward. He urged them out, trying to press them through spaces between his teeth, form each syllable one-by-one and prove he had some semblance of control.

The sound of waves cracking against the dock was deafening, and that pathetic look on Oswald’s face stayed frozen in its spot. Edward felt his grip on the tie tighten, delicate seams snapping in his hand.

Something dragged Oswald closer to him, something that was not himself. Edward went through the motions against his will, a longing to feel familiar warmth against him, the way Oswald’s eyes widened anytime they got this close. But there was no river of crimson from behind pale hands, no unmistakable ring of a revolver echoing through the empty sky. Edward pulled his incredulous friend closer, the gun at his side staying low, as far from him as possible. A push and a pull, perfect opposing forces at war with the other, poetic mimicry of what was happening in Ed’s own head. Edward knew Oswald must have been balancing on tip-toes with how far forward he had pulled the other.

Still too far away.

Something in Edward allowed his arm to finally stop, to keep Oswald mere inches from his face, observe the look of pure fear in front of him. Ed could feel the erratic breathing in Oswald’s chest against his forearm, quivering lips almost blue from frost and fright. It felt like his body was two steps ahead of his mind, cold lips now pressed to Ed’s own. Only seconds later did he remember dragging Oswald forward to close the gap, smother the burning bridge between them with icy lips that cooled the flames.

Oswald finally moved on his own accord, clinging to the damp fabric on Ed’s arms. His fingers scrambled for purchase, still shaking from the perfect cocktail of emotion he’d been forced to choke down in mere minutes since their confrontation had begun. Ed could hear the clang of metal against metal when his grip loosened on the long forgotten weapon, running his hand through Oswald’s wet hair, disheveled and still too striking than anyone should be allowed when facing their eminent demise.

Their lips worked clumsily against each other, desperate and freezing. Edward’s hand roamed from raven hair to the pale skin of Oswald’s neck, keeping his thumb on a racing pulse to prove that Oswald was here and he was alive, warm blood pumping despite the freezing skin that stretched over it.

Finally the two pulled away, inhaling sharp breaths of painfully cold air. Edward could taste salt on his tongue, whether from the air or the tears that tracked down Oswald’s face he didn’t care to know. All that seemed to matter was the disbelieving smile on the other man’s face, gratitude blanketed Oswald’s sharp features. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Ed could feel his brow furrow, the ghost of his name teased over Oswald’s lips but anything else he might have said was unintelligible. If he didn’t feel the solid ground beneath his feet, Edward would think he was the one drowning in frigid waters, looking up to view the world beneath a rippling surface.

His head began to ache, another stabbing pain preceded the throbbing in his temples yet again. A piercing sound in his ears drowned out any noise from the docks, any muffled words that were coming from Oswald, still hardly making sense before the other noise began. Ed pressed his palms to either side of his head, a stupid feeling that maybe it was the only thing keeping his skull from splintering. The smell of seawater faded quickly, the bright blue surrounding him suddenly plunged into darkness.

The world was quiet.

Ed felt his headache subside, hands settled down on a soft material with more give than he expected. Useless legs fell out from under him and he hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. He looked around at the familiar decor of Oswald’s room, saw the shined shoes by the bed that still waited for an owner who would never come, the right one quirked out in signature position.

“Osw—”

  
Ed cut himself off, he knew there would be no answer.

There never was.

His eyes burned, a hot out pour of tears started before he could stop them. Ed stared down at his hands, still feeling the phantom sensation of silk and the frenzy of Oswald’s pulse. Ed tried desperately to pretend the droplets behind his glasses were proof of the soft rainfall at the pier, but knew they were simply relentless tears still cascading down his face.

Oswald was dead. Ed had shot him, soaked in soul and heavy rain.

These visions merely a blissful escape for the fleeting minutes they allowed Edward to pretend, but they always ended the same. The same beginning, the same choices made.

And he’d wake up alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Original? Not terribly. But oh, boy did it hurt to write.  
> (Also posted without any type of beta read so be please be patient with me on this <3)


End file.
